36: AINSLEY

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I’m not having a great time. This game sucks balls. Not in a fun freaking way. Banging is all I can think about. Luke’s all I can think about, yet I can’t open my mouth and speak two words to him about it. Like a stubborn slug, I just keep letting myself get rejected again and again, my competitive nature convincing me I might somehow win this game I was determined to play with him.

But I’m not winning, not with Luke and not in general. All the charges except me have figured out how to spark block on command, meaning wielder attacks are singular in trajectory with me as the target. Part of me relishes this because it means I’m guaranteed a shootout most any time I’m alone, and frequently with an audience too, but being this sort of popular is a little draining and more than a little freaking boring.

These thirsty spark suckers can’t even be bothered to change up their routines or engage in team efforts to take me down. They just keep up with the same vanilla assault tactics earning them blood and broken bones. If they don’t start working together, I reckon these Sahara-dry slugs are never getting what they want from me.

My thoughts twirl back to Luke as I make my way to the Oculus for breakfast through the Registry corridor. I’ve never wanted anyone like this before, so swept up in constant thoughts about them, and it makes no logical sense. White Horse is arrogant, rigid, overprotective, and just about every other unappealing thing I can think of that should have me shutting this crap down hard, but Salty Seabed Luke is warm, comforting, and so freaking inviting I spend the majority of my days longing to get back to him, knowing what an amazing sleep I’m going to have wrapped in his gloriously strong arms.

The worst thing is knowing the feelings I’m having probably aren’t even really mine, just my water spark forcing its control over me. It has a clear preference where it goes, and the preference is Luke. It doesn’t care what Luke it gets either. White Horse or Salty Seabed Luke is all the same to my water spark.

My family all has different ideas about how I should manage the situation. This leaves voting for a solution off the table.

Adley suggested I explore other waters because that pool noodle probably has wet rot. But it’s hard to look at anyone else. It’s a constant comparison effort with any other punk always coming up too short to dredge my cavernous spark well.

Asher tried, as Grady did, to convince me to talk things out with Luke. I did the same thing I had with Grady, classic redirection, because I’m scared how Luke will respond. Shutting me down physically is one thing. I’m not blitzing blind. I can see how his body responds to me, but if I corner him into consent, I’ll wind up earning a dang speech like he gave Esha. I don’t know how I’ll handle that level of rejection. Actually, I do. I’ll handle it poorly, probably epically poorly as heck. The idea of firming the maybe to a never terrifies me, so hovering on the maybe, while frustrating, is still preferable to the inevitable shootout and subsequent loss.

Atlas explained what I’m feeling is an unavoidable reaction to the maintained proximity, and the only way to abate the longing is to stop sleep sharing with Luke. That requires me to heed Adley’s advice because I have to have an outlet for my water spark. I’ve formed a habit. Breaking the habit will require maximum effort on my part. But the idea of cutting Luke off guts me entirely. How can I willingly cut off a limb?

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Archie didn’t focus on Luke at all. Instead, he sends me care packages containing a variety of gloves from hot hands to oven mitts to foam fingers so I can safely take care of the problem myself. We’ve had no success in finding the right prop to help me, but he loves a challenge.

Dad sided with my water spark, suggesting it isn’t separate from me and reacts solely on instinct, drawing from the very depths of my subconscious. He pointedly reminded me until I stop looking at my sparks as individual entities we’re never going to find harmony. We have to find Zen or some other garbage that ricocheted from him watching too many self-help videos. Retirement is not good for him.

With my pity party in full swing, I don’t notice Esha coming up behind me. That frigid flapper uses her light water wielding to encapsulate my fists in ice mitts she affixes to the wall. My feet remain free only a second longer before they meet the same fate, preventing me from kicking her square in the flapper. To cinch her hat-trick achievement, she goes right ahead and locks my lips up in ice. Well played, Esha.

“What were you thinking about?” she drips, tapping a manicured nail on her lips. “Oh right, you can’t exactly tell me, can you?”

My water spark speeds to greet her fingers when they wrap around my throat, but this isn’t the wielder it wants, so it just stays there at the barrier. I consider my options, targeting the one that makes the most sense. I’ll suppressive fire. My air, earth, and fire sparks dart toward the barrier, thrilled by the invitation. But Esha’s on the ball and rolls them back into me at full force with a stream of her water spark that sends them toppling like spent bowling pins at the end of the alley.

My misfire costs me the upper hand. She’s inside me, scavenging around in search of what she came for, and I don’t know how to stop her from taking what she wants. I’d likened my water spark to Asher, soft and in need of my protection the most. I wasn’t wrong, and my other sparks feel the same exact way. They aren’t about to abandon their water brother. My fire spark is all Archie, and it’s going to bite a blitzer.

When Esha swirlies her spark around, icy tendrils grabbing my water spark and pulling it to her, my fire spark unleashes holy hellfire in that direction, disintegrating those tethers to dust, my air spark promptly blows out the dirt she tracked in, and my earth spark seals up the barrier, fortifying it so there’s no freaking way she’s getting back through.

That mighty teamwork saves and cripples me simultaneously. Their joy is causing them to slosh over the edges of my well. Esha smirks when my shackle roars its defiance. She’s put me at a true disadvantage. Even if I’ve spark blocked her, I have to let my sparks out or else there’ll be dire consequences. And it isn’t just me in danger. The whole academy is.

I try to calm myself like we’ve been practicing, but with her up in my grill, and her hand squeezing my throat, it’s impossible to focus on anything but her stupidly beautiful face. She’s perfect. Flawlessly freaking feminine. Long lashes over those glorious blue rings with swirling white flecks that remind me so much of Luke. Her hair is salon-styled and hanging down her back in soft waves, highlights upon highlights of sun-kissed blond. She’s polished in a way I’ll never be, absolutely shiny on every dang surface.

Of course Luke wanted her, and probably still does, for the trophy prospect if nothing else. And she had him. He was so tightly wound around those fingers currently strangling me, but she didn’t want him. Like he doesn’t want me. He’s just thirsty for his water skank. I’ll never be enough for him without it. This is what he wants, her or some snobby squib like her, and those shiny slugs are nothing like me.

Staring into her eyes, my colouring a matching blue, I take solace from the fact I didn’t surrender to her wants. Not only that, now I’ll never have to. That shiny slug might suffocate me straight into darkness, but her victory is hollow. She’ll never tame me. All she can do is restrain me. My sparks rage on in a fierce battle cry of assent. They might cage us, but they’ll never tame us. No one in Scintilla can.